Steady Breaths
by Settely
Summary: Being asexual as long as it kept benefiting him, Sherlock has always felt content with the current situation. Jealousy is a foreign term to him then, especially the irrational kind, right? Crime scenes, please!
1. Monday

It's not as if you understand him or those things you keep getting popping into your thoughts at the most inappropriate moments, when the two of you laugh at something or there's just another loud and clear word of approval from John. Things happen only because of logical causes, like money, twisted emotions, unfinished things, deeds or, less surprisingly than it used to be to you, sex. The latter, you'll fairly sure, is one of the most common motivators and yet, you still haven't got the slightest idea why. Sure, blokes can look good, ladies just as well, but… It's just a term to you. An adjective others use to describe other others. And what's so thrilling in moving against each other, covered in sweat and moaning incoherent words no one really cares about (at least when they're still going and haven't dozed off already in the middle of the action) anyway? You keep finding photos scattered across John's bed, with naked women winking or puckering their pink with cheap lipstick lips and you're not really sure why it bothers you at all.  
>Or doesn't it?<p>

You're not sure, just as always, what exactly it is, that thing in your chest when you see another of them. Even though thoughts about the cases (a small Ukrainian syndicate interested in killing off local prostitutes, a few false bomb alarms and a couple of petty thefts) are more important, you still pocket the shots and stare at them long into the night, trying to understand something that perhaps has nothing to do with logic at all.

Nothing interesting happens for at least a week you spend pocketing more and more of the photographs you've never really noticed before until now. They've began to get monotous and quite boring with each day though because, really, how many different poses a model in a bikini or just with her panties on, can strike? John seems to show a liking towards brunettes, petite and with small breasts which couldn't really fill a hand. B- to C-cup, narrow hips and a girlish, flirtatious smile playing on the corners of lips of each of them. They all look so fake, trying to raise some money to maintain a living in a foreign country, get at least a degree in something or just kill the boredom beside their useless husbands. It all plays in the corners of their bare arms, defiant stares from under too big nerdy glasses or a sad glint in the eyes despite the cheerful pose. It all seems just as mechanical as you've read. Pull your pants down, the business and then forget about everything until next time.

You've never regretted having so sexual interest whatsoever and to tell the truth, you can't see why the whole idea of not enjoying something as foul and not needed could be seen as freaky or not healthy. Emotions shouldn't get in the way of thinking (but who would be petty and naïve enough to think about them while seeing or describing an intercourse, oh c'mon, we're not in pre-school anymore, especially on a crime scene). It all just seems so messy and illogical that you lose your interest over and over while looking at those pictures. They're interesting in "getting to know the other" way than their main purpose way and you can't say you don't feel intrigued.

You try to find the clues finely shimmering just beneath the surface, drinking tea and going through the recent lists of things Mycroft demanded having your attention onto. Of course, the latter has time, as everything concerning your pompous brother and so you find yourself more often than not enjoying the quality time with John. It's nothing big and you get occasionally bored, looking steadily at the face in front of you with an unreadable expression. Those photos play a role you can't yet fully grasp but everything has its rhythm, you smile lazily into the silk of your bathrobe.

Everything, even a silly question about sexuality which doesn't interest you at all.


	2. Tuesday

"Isn't your girlfriend bothered by this kind of things?"

Your voice is quiet and at first John seems not to have heard you at all. He sighs and stops reading the paper, his cup of tea steaming on the counter. He smiles to himself before looking at you, amusement filling his gaze, silently urging you to continue with whatever you have on your mind.

"I mean, it's kind of ridiculous to supply your memory with photoshopped women instead of feeling her body with your own hands, isn't it?" You snuggle into your blanket, feet dangling off the couch. Good thing that John hasn't been sipping his tea like he usually does for now he splutters curses and bickers at the jam that fell from his sandwich. He dropped it centimeters from his mouth, splattering the bloody coloured jelly onto the floor, hardly missing his jumper. Hideous woolly thing that one is but still you can't help but smile at the sight of it in the morning.

You wink innocently at the man, pretending to start flipping through one of the older gardening magazines Mrs. Hudson left you a couple of years ago. If you remember correctly, there is an article on bees keeping somewhere in the middle of it that caught your attention some time ago. You're trying to find the right page while John is muttering under his breath and shooting daggers at your back. Before he can ask you, you pull an envelope with some of the shots you found lastly from your pocket.. You toss it at him, neither turning around, nor caring where it would fall. As easy to predict as it is, a good dozen of the photographs slip and fall straight into the jam puddle, spluttering it onto John's trousers as far as the sound can be trusted.

All John does at that is sigh, not even pretending to be upset about the loss of his newly bought beige piece of clothing. "What are you talking about this time, Sherlock?" His voice starts to take on that infuriating shaking note and you know that it's not one of those moments when you can play with him like you constantly do with others, no matter how jerk-ass that might sound. "You're already so bored that you feel the need to think out gibberish about me and Sarah?"

You turn around, making a sour face at him, pretending not to see the mess your envelope made of the carpet and the lower half of his legs. "Make believing is childish. I just happened to find a few interesting things and thought I'd share them with you."

"Oh my, how generous of you indeed." John is practically gritting his teeth now, banging through cabinets in search of a rug. You roll your eyes, reaching for your violin but halfway changing your mind. You toss paper towels at John the moment he comes into view fuming and before he can say anything you go up-stairs.

Something feels absolutely out of place now but you don't really know why.

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><p><strong><em>AN: Something different._**


	3. In the afternoon

When you come into the kitchen later the same day, John is tapping furiously on the keyboard, too engrossed to even notice you. There's a stain on the carpet where the sandwich hit the floor but before you can snigger about it, the man shoots you a dirty look from behind his laptop. You shrug, not bothered by it at all, lounging yourself onto the couch and checking your messages. You do it third time this day but Lestrade has neither called, nor texted you and it's starting to get frustrating.

"Bored." You groan with half-studied emphasis, staring at the ceiling. John doesn't say anything, his even breathing the only thing being heard in the room. You toss and turn before you spare a glance at him, his back turned on you.

Your shirt got rumpled a bit, a fact you notice the moment you decide to get up. You go up to his chair, stretching your bones and yawing. His favourite jumper clashes with the darkness of the interior just as ridiculously as it always does and it takes you a few seconds not to start chuckling at it like you did the last time. The two of you didn't talk for at least three days afterwards. It took all of your inner strength to apologize to the man and not die from the sheer silence greeting you then on the crime scenes and in the morning. For some time now, it's getting on your nerves whenever the flat grows too silent. It has never been a problem before but now you want to talk, to be talked to and man, you're already bored stiff.

"John, I'm bored." You start again, leaning slightly onto the back of his chair, your elbows colliding with the man's shoulder blades. You hear John inhaling deeply, not turning around just yet but slowing the rhythm of his tapping steadily. "Bored out of my mind, to tell the truth."

Your flatmate studies you carefully, his back angled awkwardly. His face is close to yours now and you feel the warmth of his breath on your cheeks. It's unnerving, to say the least but you smile slowly, not drawing back as you'd usually do when it gets too uncomfortable.

John makes a face, returning to his typing and relaxing his back slightly against the curves of your arms. You wait for him to answer, smoothing the unruly wool underneath your fingertips unconsciously. The screen flashes, tinting John's skin blue.

"Sarah asked me to do some research for her. I'm up my ears in work, sorry." He mutters finally, reaching for a half-drank mug of tea.

You feel irritation growing in the pit of your stomach at that but before he closes the casing you look over his shoulder, not even trying to hide the sarcasm suddenly tinting your voice. "Oh really? It's interesting to hear that Sarah needs attractive Ukrainian girls in bikinis in her work. Is she making a PHD in that area? You've got plenty of research done on that quite alright."

John spits his tea and you huff, sitting down on the couch heavily. You fist your hands while John is fervently closing some of the windows whose headings you just saw. He spins around in his chair, pretending not to look flustered. You pick the gardening magazine once again, bees keeping much more interesting than John's mouth closing and opening like goldfish's, his eyes going to and fro between you and the computer.

"You don't even have much of a taste when it comes to them, you know." Your voice is cool, the cover of the magazine slightly twitching in your grasp. John makes another face at you, sighing silently when he gets up. He clasps a couple of paper towels in his hands, draining the table, your presence lost to him. "What have come into you? You have a girlfriend and yet…"

"What, are you surprised? What, am I not as saintly as you thought? Do you want to give me a lesson on what's fair and not in a relationship?" John's gaze is stern and he moves quickly, way too quickly for you liking. Before you can say anything more, the magazine falls from your hands onto the floor, his hands caught in your hair. "Don't tell me, what's right or wrong, Sherlock. I'm way more capable of figuring that myself than you can imagine."

His footsteps are loud in the flat as he stomps upstairs and all you can do is to stare at his retreating back. You shakily let out a breath which you haven't noticed holding the whole time.


	4. Wednesday morning

**_A/N: Don't be afraid to comment. I don't bite too hard._**

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><p>John is mumbling something in his sleep when Lestrade calls finally. It's two in the morning, the afterglow of the street lanterns misting the windows over, John breathing heavily in an armchair next to you. The detective curses constantly, the heavy sound of raining echoing in the receiver, making it near impossible to get what he is talking about.<p>

There was a strange murder in Hyde Park, a woman in her early twenties. They need you as soon as possible there, Donovan and Anderson already looking correspondingly for any witnesses and tracks which just seem to drain with all of the water down into The Serpentine's opaque depths.

To tell the truth and to irritate Lestrade a bit, you're sure they'll sooner destroy everything themselves and the rain would be just an excuse. Lestrade just sighs in answer, telling you to bring your lazy ass there better sooner than later.

You laugh in triumph, plucking impatiently two coats from the stand. You shake John's shoulder, trying hard not to trip on the blanket you threw at him some time ago or a book that has fallen from his hands the moment he fell asleep. You still have no idea why exactly he came back to sit opposite of you in the living room, reading some book on medicine instead of sulking in his own room or doing whatever usually happened in ordinary households. You don't know what exactly "an ordinary household" means but it's one of those things that could never be said about anything you take a part in, that's for sure.

John groans finally, the heaviness of sleep still clouding his eyes when you throw his coat on him, quickly buttoning it lopsidedly across his trembling arms. The two of you ran down the stairs the next moment, your flatmate's elbow clasped tightly between your fingers.

It's raining cats and dogs when you get to the park, your hair plastered to your forehead with all the liquid flowing down your nose and lips. John is fully awake at your side by now, scrunching his shoulders and muttering quietly under his breath, glancing at you with pretense from time to time. So okay, okay, neither of you remembered to get the umbrella from behind the armchair. Is it so important though, the sky being slashed through with thunders from time to time, the sky inky black upon your heads? You roll your eyes and nearly run up to the neatly covered with thick rich yellow tapes meadow near the Bird Sanctuary.

Lestrade isn't surprised upon seeing John beside you any longer, nodding sharply as a mean of greeting both of you. His silver hair glistens in the light of many reflectors the Yards have had to bring with themselves upon arriving at the crime scene.

"Sorry for calling so late into the night." He smirks at the yawning grotesquely widely John. You pat the man lightly on the shoulder, chuckling quietly when he glares at you. Lestrade observes the two of you intently but before he can make any useless comment, you tell him to show you the body. He snickers but turns to the figures lying crumpled on the grass. "Sarah White, a twenty year old student of architecture."

The girl is so young and as feminine as any teenager would like his women to be, a scrawny redhead with long coppery hair twining down board-flat chest and halfway onto the muddy grass. Her flowery dress has been torn in a couple of places but otherwise there is no visible sign of a fight upon her face or beneath her naked milky breasts save for a few big, livid bruises on her stomach. She looks as if she was sleeping, heavy make-up going down her freckled cheeks in two glittering rivers, staining her swollen lips black.

"She misses her left ring finger." Lestrade's voice is quiet as he looks at you sideways. He takes out two folic bags out of his pocket and hands them to you, his lips twisting with distaste.

It's a pair of stained silk gloves and her ID.

"Anderson is still looking around for footprints but I doubt he'll find anything. It started raining just the moment we got here, for God's sake."

"Finally something interesting." You sight dreamily and behind you, you can hear John sneeze loudly.


	5. Another week later

_**A/N: Thank you very much for the attention, alerts and these early comments. And, as always, don't be afraid to review.**_

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><p>After a couple of days of sniffling around, watching Lestrade frown at John sneezing and coughing by your side and listening to Donovan's moaning and groaning about your involvement in the case as always, one thing is certain for sure.<p>

Scotland Yard is full of idiots with Lestrade being the least funny of them. It's becomes a stated fact when you want to pocket his ID and instead of the documents find two tickets to a gay bar. He winks at you the moment he sees you fuming and if it wasn't for the case, you'd strangle him on the spot. And John sniggers warmly next to you, the tense atmosphere between you two melting away slowly. It's highly illogical and irritating.

Anderson drawls on and on about the impracticality of having a freak contaminate his workplace and it's Lestrade himself that tells him to shut up this time when you meet the two of them on Monday. He rolls his eyes but gives you the forensic evidence, sighing theatrically in distaste upon touching your hands briefly.

They found a ring up the girl's throat a few hours ago, the blue crystal in the centre matted and broken in half. It has a curious design you don't really remember ever seeing. It must have been made on someone's order and you store that information in your mind for later researching. Mrs. White had been dead for at least a few hours the moment the squad found her. She was strangled, bruises on her stomach caused by someone stepping or sitting on her for a longer period of time.

There are photographs as always accompanying the folder and you look at the details of each hungrily, flicking through them to and fro with the man's bored eyes following you disdainfully from afar.

"Don't you have anything better left to do than looking dumb, Anderson?" You snap at him finally, feeling your patience wear off. You glance at him sideways, the blinding white lights of the laboratory irritating your eyes as much as the mere sight of him. You open your lips widely, as if a sudden thought stroke you, "Oh, I forgot. It's the only think you know inside out after all, isn't it? Do forgive me my forgetfulness."

John sighs immediately and you can almost hear his eyeballs rolling in their sockets. You spot with satisfaction that Anderson's forehead vein started to throb centimeters underneath his pale skin. He breaths through his nose as you smirk in triumph, your mood already rising up. He turns his head sharply towards Lestrade but the latter just shrugs, coughing slightly in disinterest.

Anderson's lips twitch but he doesn't answer straight back and you almost want to scream at him to do something. It's simply not fair not to pick up the gauntlet when it's being throw right into your face. Pity, it seems nothing but the ring will be your entertainment today.

"As witty as always, aren't you, freak?" He mutters finally, pulling on a new pair of gloves, his eyes wandering onto John's face. You feel a twinge of indescribable _something_ in your chest at that but all Anderson does is just smile lopsidedly at you the next second, his eyes twinkling with hatred. "Still bringing your mascot onto the crime scenes I see." He gathers the rest of the folders sprayed onto the table in front of him into his arms, "Better have a close eye on it, maybe it won't die as quickly as your other imaginary friends." He nods sharply to Lestrade and moves to the exit with his usual lack of grace, his back straight as a line and the air full of his self-given victory.

You can feel John practically shaking with rage behind you, his furrowed brows obscuring his darkening eyes. His lips are squeezed tight and his calmly spoken question is almost inaudible in the quiet room, "Pray tell, how's your wife doing, Anderson?"

You feel rush of warmth fill you as the idiot freezes, documents nearly falling from his hands. Lestrade is folding his arms, looking at the ceiling and there's a wide smile playing on your lips. Maybe you're really having a bad influence on the good doctor after all and it feels just heavenly to see the look of incredulousness and vulnerability on that ugly ditz's face even if it's not achieved with your own words.

After you two leave the Yard's building you want to congratulate John but he doesn't stop beside you like he usually does, instead quickly walking down the road, his limp long ago forgotten. You easily match his steps soon, staring off into the distance. You start thinking about the ring, about the unusual design and things it could mean. You can feel John's eyes being on you but you ignore it. Finally the man stops, folding his arms angrily and you sigh, stopping a few feet from him.

"What is it?" You turn back, wet and cold wind lashing onto your throat as the coat opens slightly with your movements. John isn't looking at you, his back pressed against the side of some building, a flower shop you notice momentarily when you hastily make his way up to him. "Look, we don't have time for any sentimental talks right now, it's high time we…"

"It's ridiculous." John's voice is muffled and his head comes onto the plaster with a dull thump. He gazes at the silvery tinted sky with furrowed brows, the sound of his laughter humorless and cold. You're ridiculous. I'm ridiculous."

You stare at him with a bored expression fixed upon your face. "Are you quite finished contemplating the meaningless of your life?" He glances at you, tension slowly wearing off, a scandalized look entering his eyes. He opens his mouth to say something but you cut in, waving your hand dismissively, as if riding yourself of pesky insects, "Don't bother. We need to do some research that idiot didn't bother recommending."

You turn on your heel and start walking away, never hearing the other's footsteps accompany yours.

It's well past midnight when John shows himself in the flat finally, his clothes rumpled and stinking of cigarette smoke. You flick your eyes from the article on unusual jewelry you have been reading right onto his face, thousands of books scattered around the floor and your skin bluish in the laptop's afterglow.

"Where have you been?" You look at him with unblinking eyes for a long moment, your fingers lying motionlessly on the keyboard.

You don't care for his answer. It's already perfectly clear.

John starts giggling. He goes to the kitchen and pours himself a glass of something, his breath labored and tired. The air moves and in the whole cacophony of smells surrounding him, you can suddenly easily discern a distinct floral chord.

A lump fills your throat. Why should you care, you don't care.

The ring the girl had stuffed up her throat was an Irish Claddagh ring and it is what matters now, not that something squeezing itself hard inside your chest at the sight of your flatmate's wobbly knees and toothy grin aimed at you. You close your eyes tightly, listening to John's footsteps as he makes his way to his room, bumping against the walls and giggling his dazed drunken laugh in the darkness. Only when the flat grows fully silent again do you return to your lecture. The stench of cigarettes fills your nostrils to the point of sickness but you stare at the screen pensively, not really noticing it anymore.


	6. Morning tea

John is still clambering from his bed when someone knocks at the door quietly. You have been drinking tea then and so, with a mug clasped tightly in one hand and a toast in the other, you come up to the door. You recognize the girl standing in front of you instantly.

Sarah Sawyer is fidgeting nervously on the doorstep, her woolen sweater draped tightly along every curve. She hasn't been sleeping well for the past few nights for her eyes aren't as bright as they were the first day you met her and her cheeks are just as pale as yours. Her hair is tousled, a few strands going loose down her shoulders from her high pined up bun. Her skittish smile vanishes at the sight of you, disorientation finding its soft place in her eyes, her whole silhouette suddenly straightening up. You aren't surprised, not with the way the whole fiasco of your involvement in their last date turned out to be. It's quite a surprise to you, still, that she hasn't broken up with John yet. You frown at her, leaning onto the doorframe nonchalantly, sweeping your eyes over her. She might be an intelligent and observant girl but she does have much left to learn. She must've left her house in a hurry, her coat's belt caught up within its folds. Her jaw line is proud and she stares at you defiantly back, inching closer towards the doorstep. You try not to wince too much but in the end it's your arms and hips that currently stand in her way into the flat. There's that remote ache in your chest but you nod at her swiftly, sipping your tea, steam going up your face like a small cloud.

"He's out. And no, he won't go with you to have coffee today. Or tomorrow. We have an on-going case." Sarah tries to look past your shoulder in and you roll your eyes, muttering softer, starting to close the door, "Try some other time. We're busy."

"I need to talk to him." She starts straightening her skirt, a gesture meaning nervousness and impatience you saw many times before. Her nails seem broken at the edges and, as you look closer at her face, there are distinct leftovers of a poorly washed away mascara in the corners of her eyes. She has been crying for the sclera is bloodshot and she starts glaring at you, trying to make you do something you haven't the slightest willingness to do.

"Sherlock, please close the goddamn door for once!" John's voice echoes from the depths of the flat, suddenly, muffled somewhat and Sarah's eyes flicker momentarily to the side upon hearing it. Her pupils seem to widen and before you can anything, she slams one of her hands between the door and your arm. You don't move, still sipping your tea, glancing at her with a half-amused smirk, not blinking. John keeps banging with the drawers and cupboards, happily oblivious to everything, still moaning and groaning, "It's already damn freezing in here without your help, you know."

"Let me in." She grits her teeth, glaring at you fully now, her fingers growing white on the door-frame. You observe her forehead crease and smooth itself every couple of seconds, fascinated.

"Why should I? It's six in the morning, Sunday and the dawn has been just a few minutes ago. If it weren't for you, everybody would still be peacefully sleeping, me included." You yawn excruciatingly, brushing off toast crumbs from your lips, mug in your hand barely warm any longer. With the most bored expression you can muster this early in the morning, you bring the door closer to yourself, nearly closing it completely, "Come some other time. Or don't come at all, either way sounds good to me."

"It doesn't to John . Or does it?" She whispers behind the wood and before you have the time to ask her what she meant, she's gone.

You don't say anything when John's shots you a questioning gaze over his cup of tea, your eyes glued to the newest online headlines done in bold, angry red letters.

There was another murder like the one you two have been working on for the past week, this time just a few feet from the Speaking Corner.


	7. Rainy minutes

Maria McCoy was five years older than Sarah White. You observe her folded arms, no trace of fight visible, her clothes mudded and torn in the same places like the last time. Her make-up has been flowing down her face in the rain, mascara rivers soaking the collar of her whitish shirt. She played a string instrument for her left hand fingertips are calloused and their fingernails are skin-short. She misses her left ring finger and when you expose her stomach, you're not surprised to see a set of livid purple bruises grazing its lower half.

You close your eyes, trying to concentrate. So much things match now but there is something fleeing your grasp yet, something that could unmask this silly case sooner than later.

"She was a dyed brunette, wasn't she?" John asks suddenly from behind your back, his lips set into a tight line when you spun around and look at him intently. He flickers his eyes onto the ground, awkwardness encircling his voice, "Harry used to have such suckers when she'd take the wrong shade."

You blink, nodding your head. There are freckles on the girl's nose and neckline, their delicate colour nearly blending with the skin's.

Maria's hair is short, cut somewhat tomboyish but she still has that stereotypical air of feminity around her, if something like that even exists. Your eyes are soft when you draw out a photo from one of your pockets, the ring in it looking just as eerie as always. You wonder why you haven't noticed its bulge on White's throat but now that you know what exactly to look for, it's laughably easy.

"You saw Sarah, didn't you?" John's voice is quiet, a little raspy as if he just had a coughing fit. You look at him over your shoulder, still crouching at McCoy's head, your own tilted slightly in interest. It was bound to happen, what with the tale-tale the woman always seems to be to you, at least when it comes to John's interest. He stares impatiently at you, hands stuffed into his jeans' pockets and you can't help but play the dumb just for the kicks, even for a few minutes.

"It's your girlfriend, not mine. Why would I want to see her?" There's a note of amusement in your murmur as you turn away to inspect the body further, folds of your coat grazing slightly your ankles. You can hear John sighing as his footsteps near.

"Sherlock, don't be more childish than you already are. It's not amusing at all."

"To me it is." You rose to your feet, a swell of irrational anger suddenly seizing your insides. It's silly to feel something like that on the crime scene but here you are, clasping a fluttering shot in one of your hands, an ID and another pair of unused woman gloves in the other, the lump in your throat going lose. A scowl takes its once well-known place on your face, the air growing hot as you narrow your eyes at the man. He's standing much too close for your liking all of the sudden. It didn't bother you before, so why does it now? "Very much so, especially with her knowing our address. You gave it to her?"

John rolls his eyes at you but there is defensiveness in the gesture you don't usually see in him these days. You can see his fingers curl slightly underneath the plain material, his facial muscles tightening. "You're not the only one living there, you know. I have every right to-"

"Neither are you, John." Your tone is much harsher than you wanted it to be but what has been said, has been said. John glances sharply at you, his face twisting slightly. You can't really fathom what this look in his eyes, as he averts his gaze from you suddenly, can mean. It seems that once again you said much too much, using just a few words.

You open your mouth to fill the awkward silence that has followed with something accurate but it's John who breaks it finally, gazing unseeingly at Lestrade moving to and fro in the far distance. His expression is once again collected, a far-away tint of melancholy staining his sigh, "I have no idea why I even bother anymore."

There is something very wrong in these quiet words. You know that much already and your palms begin to sweat as John continues, kicking a few stray stones with the tip of his shoe, "I don't get it, Sherlock. Is someone's happiness that much unreasonable to you that you feel the need to destroy it straight away the moment you get the chance?"

He chuckles to himself, eyeing the gloomy sky as the first few drops begin to fall once again, "It's a rhetorical question though, isn't it?"


	8. Good night

Your nights have become sleepless once again since the past few days. It's nothing new, insomnia renewing itself from time to time. So far, it has always been fairly easy – you'd just play your violin till your wrists would swell with pain and crack the moment you'd put the bow away, that blissful emptiness finally encircling your senses. Nowadays the flat isn't as quiet as it once used to be and you can't bring yourself to concentrate enough.

Suddenly heavy, fatigued breathing vibrates through the paper-thin walls and a muffled groan follows suit.

Something feels wrong. Your eyes double their size in a second, something gripping at your chest. It is something akin to a panic attack, you'll think the next day coolly, but now it's unnerving. Go figures, maybe you really should eat and sleep more regularly. You hear blood rushing to your head as you open the door to your room quietly, peering into the darkness. It takes a couple of steps to get to the source and then you step there, in front of John's room. He's had a few nightmares since he came to you and you can't help but wonder. He hasn't had any for the past weeks.

The door is partly closed, not too well and before you can abandon the idea completely, a moan erupts from within once again. Your worry, no matter how grudgingly you might want to shush it, wins against the hesitation and so you make the door ajar.

Your voice catches itself in your throat. You don't know what caught you more off guard, surprise, revulsion or rather that sudden emptiness deep in your gut, as if you just missed a step on the staircase and was about to come tumbling down onto the street.

You see John, his darkened silhouette lying sprawled on the bed, his head thrown back onto one of its supports. He is facing the ceiling, oblivious to your astonishment filled form standing at the feet of the door. He has the laptop in his lap, face flushed and half of his clothes already lying on the floor. He works one of his hands up and down his fly, the back of his hand continuing to get hooked on the material and a forming there swollen bulge. He is gripping the casing as if his life depended on it, his eyes rolling underneath the lids to the back of his skull. The sound coming from the computer is strangely far fainter than what you have heard in your room, a bit louder than the clock's tick as you lean on the frame, gripping it tightly and staring unblinkingly at the screen. There are two busty brunettes and a few Nordic looking men squalling, sighing and screaming, maybe not in the exact order but still. You don't understand. Up until now you have thought that the photographs were some sort of a joke your too logical mind just couldn't comprehend like normal people would but as you flicker your eyes to and fro between John and the laptop, doubts vanish.

It's all a game and the air feels heavy, sweat layered with sultriness.

John groans and you wet your lips, feeling nausea slowly getting the better of you. "F-Fuck, oh God." He unzips his jeans and you stare in fascination as he begin to slide them off blindly, as if too accustomed to the routine to care anymore. The laptop bounces on his knees as the trousers roll down his hips and thighs. They aren't marvelous, aren't even half-attractive but the view of naked skin strikes you like lightning. Not the hoarse whisper, not the act but the milky, hairy tissue alarms you enough to realize just what exactly you are doing.

Because, let's face it, what normal person spies on their masturbating flat mate?

"F-fuck." You'd never think that John would swear while doing _that_ but well. You don't know him all _that_ well, it proves. It's hard to focus now on your surroundings not to knock anything down and embarrass the two of you to death. Your breath is quiet and chest moves millimeters only as John starts trashing slightly on the bed, his arm coming lower and lower while maintaining the previous speed. You feel sickened with yourself because the whole situation is bizarre, deranged and oh my God, did John just begin to take off his undies as well?

Your mind screams at you to get a grip on yourself but how can somebody, least an abstract form of your subconscious, demand something as impossible as just that in such circumstances. You follow the hand's movements with hunger you haven't felt in a long time, have never felt… in your whole life? You want it to move faster, to tease the curls whose bluishly illuminated ends you can see from where you are standing, to linger and then bolt upwards once again.

It's sick but sick games provide the best entertainment, you conclude and try to stabilize your form more firmly on the frame. Sadly your back is too bony and instead of graciously coming onto the wood precisely, one of your shoulder blades slips. You collapse into the corridor with a loud thud, limbs dangling comically as your head pounds into the floor. Before anything else happens though, before John jerks his head sharply to the ceiling and looks around, fully alarmed, you scramble quickly to your feet and bolts into your own room, face blood-red and breath caught half-way in your throat.

"Oh my." You press your back against the quietly closed door, sliding down it the next minute. Your lips are shaking and so do your knees and your mind resembles a scrambled eggs. Because, really, what was it all about? There is sweat forming at your brow and heat goes flowing like nicotine down your limbs, to the cells. What, oh my God, is that an erection starting down there? The trousers are tight, far too tight and adrenaline fuels the traitorous thing till it's nearly tearing them in a half.

But Sherlock, you are asexual. You are asexual, God damn it. It has always been one of those things you knew for sure, you didn't need anyone approve of or accept fully. It was one of those things which were stable but now it's falling apart, falling apart because of the damned piece of muscles, veins and cavernous body. You don't know why tears are the first thing that untangle themselves from the misty mess in your head but here you are, clutching your arms and rocking to and fro, bringing your head steadily onto the door. You are sobbing noiselessly, feeling your lips swell and desire dies in you on its own with a bitterly tasting finale, your whole body going stiff in contrary.

You're a freak and the watery trails taste of salt and lemon.


	9. Tea

You forgot to sugar your tea, the liquid stone cold and as dark as cacao when you finally bring the cup to your lips. Its bitter taste clouds your palate like smoke but you don't wince and complain like you would have done before. Things seem to slip your memory and hands today, either going straight into your subconscious' delete folder or omitting the whole ordinary way, destroying themselves the moment they come to your head. There's a deep, teeth-clenching headache forming behind your eyes and the light feels much too sharp already, even though it's just eight o'clock in the morning.

You already hate this damn morning, the whole goddamn week and month.

John is sitting in front of you, flipping through yesterday's newspaper and oh God, you feel like a deer caught in the headlights. The two of you haven't said anything to each other so far apart from sleepily murmured hellos. If any of your college mates could see you now, you're sure that they'd laugh their cold laugh and say that the stick you've always been said to have up your arse, doubled in its size. The chair is uncomfortable, smells from the kitchen that never bothered you before far too strong, nauseating to some extent and your muscles are tense, cramps begin to form along your thighs and feet. You don't fidget on your place like you usually do, trying to gather details about cases, thinking or just doing other fucked up shit only you can do on empty stomach. Your back is straight as a line as you stare at the table, cupping the cup in your cold palms. You're going insane, there is no other logical explanation and for one of those rare times, you are beginning to realise just how terrifying the sheer thought of it is. You can't look John in the eye, neither now or ever and even though the childishness of the sentence is bullet-strong, it still remains closest to the truth.

"Sherlock, eat something finally. You'll starve yourself to death one day if you keep doing this." John's voice is levelled and before you can do anything (shout obscenities at him, snigger about his lack of a healthy sex-life, flip him onto the table, run away to your room and die there, oh dear, do you even know what you want to do in such situations?), his hand finds its way onto one of yours and squeezes it firmly. There are no sparks of electricity being shared, no wild exclamation marks appearing in the air, shouting at you to do something. Your breath catches itself in your throat but there is nothing new about the warm feel of those calloused fingers brushing yours. They are just as solid as the last time he passed you your phone, the same shade of sinewy pale and they are just as parched as always. He could buy himself a cream one day finally, you think half-amused, a shudder going up your spine. You drift your gaze onto his face and all you find there is... What exactly? You've never been good with reading people's faces, this not-so-popular gift getting you in trouble more often than not.

John observes you intently, his light eyes seeming more tired and older than you remembered. He waits for you to do something but that_ something_ squeezing, dancing and pinching you in the middle of the chest leaves you completely mute and you keep staring, not even looking at him, but out rightly staring with your eyes wide opened as if he just performed some kind of a magic trick you have never seen anyone do before. He chuckles embarrassed and withdraws his hand as the silence stretches on and there's shame written in the way his lips' corners fall down. The movement sends a jolt through your whole body and you brush unconsciously an untouched sandwich lying in front of you. It mocks you, it's a stated fact, mocks you with its sheer existence.

John coughs up, doing that funny thing with his lips afterwards he only can do, not looking utterly ridiculous. He flickers his eyes to the side before glancing at you again and then moves up from the table, carrying his empty dish to the sink, "Being once again under the weather, aren't we?" There's a hint of a smile in his voice and you follow his movements with your dropping eyes, your chest tightening.

After the whole failure yesterday, you haven't slept a wink. Thoughts kept coming, streaming like a river never meant to run dry.

You are asexual. You're not attracted to anyone and even though everything is all fine, fine, John is heterosexual anyway and nothing could be done about it and it means nothing that his sister is a diesel dyke, sexual orientation isn't genetically determined in one hundred percent, there is the environment and all that jazz and Sherlock, just get a grip finally. It's nothing like you, you're not being yourself now what with the whole emotional gibberish, strands of questions still lingering in the air, not articulated aloud even once. Oh, damn it.

"You heard that crash in the flat yesterday?" John's jumper seems lighter somehow as he lets the tap open and foam starts to gather on his hands. He chuckles to himself, rolling the sleeves with one of his thumbs awkwardly, not facing you sideways like before. He's embarrassed.

You feel your facial muscles freeze. _Jesus Christ. _

"Thought something happened out on the street," his voice is quiet, the rattle of his fingertips on the glass and the hum of the water mixing into one sound bubble. He peeks at you fleetingly, a small smile playing on his lips as he reaches for a cloth and starts drying the plate. "but then I remembered closing the window some time before."

Before John can suggest anything more or even pretend he knows more than he possibly could (or whatever, you're the consulting detective for the God's sake after all, not he!), you say the least thing you'd want to but yeah, it finally shuts him up and besides, it has been crystal clear since what, forever?

"Has Miss Sawyer said no to your proposal?"


	10. Words

John eyes you steadily for a moment, cloth dangling from his hand uselessly. He sets the plate aside before sitting heavily down beside the table once again, hands folded on the back of his neck. He sighs and some of the tension filling your chest flees with the hushed breath. Why exactly, you don't really know.

"I didn't propose to her if that's what you mean." His lips twist into half a smile, half a frown as he continues to stare at the table. He glances at you fleetingly from under his brows. There's a glint in that gaze, something you can't really decipher. He ruffles his hair, muffling a nervous laugh, "Fuck. Why am I even telling you this? You're not really a heart counselor, are you, Sherlock?"

"She wants to move in here?" You bring the cup closer to your mouth, its surface resembling ice in your grip. John stares at you, his eyes flickering to and fro between yours and the table. He starts knitting his fingers together, an embarrassed expression fixing its place on his face.

Before he can stand up and flee outside or wherever else, you catch his wrist in an iron-like grip. It seems weird the moment you notice what exactly you are doing but it doesn't matter for the time being, does it? John's skin is sweaty, slipping away slowly but you hold on tightly, feeling the irregular pounding of his heart beneath your fingertips. "Who the hell do you think you are, John?"

"Pardon me?" His voice is just as strained as his face and he tries to yank his hand away. You'll have none of it of course and thus instead of putting the much needed distance between the two of you, you come closer. "You are the one jumping to conclusions, not I!"

"Jumping to conclusions?" You echo the words with doubt icing the sounds heavily. You aren't sleepy anymore, you aren't fatigued, you aren't even gloomy anymore. That bitch. Or rather, that new Watson bitch. "Why are you suddenly so keen on sharing details of your personal life with me? Any new problems, new solutions? New addresses?"

"Sherlock, Jesus Christ, what-" John is looking at you wide-eyed, brows starting to knit. He stops struggling and instead sits down once again, one of his sleeves still being gripped tightly by you. He shakes his head, bringing a hand over his mouth as you try to slow down the furious beat of your heart. Goddamn it Holmes, what on earth are you doing? "It's not like that, I mean, Sarah and me, we-"

"What, am I being wrong somewhere?" You ask incredulously, not really knowing now whether to take your hand away from his sleeve or just leave it there for the time being, wool's yarns as smooth as cloudlets. John's eyes meet yours for the split of seconds and you are the first one to look away, much to your own surprise.

"You are impossible, Holmes. Just-" John groans, bringing his hands in the air. He shakes his head silently the next second and walks out of the kitchen, the once fresh scent of tea disappearing the moment his back leave your field of vision.

You stare at your hands the moment the door clicks quietly, smoothing your trousers absent mindedly. You're mildly surprised when John comes back a few minutes later, gripping his phone with whitened knuckles and an unreadable expression on his face. You almost want to laugh when he tosses it towards you, a challenge glistening in his eyes.

"I'm not your baby-sitter, John, what am I supposed to do with this?" You drawl, trying not to appear too nervous. Inside you're shaking, perspiration slowly beginning to glisten on the inside of your palms. By the end of this, you'll be a nervous wreck, there's no doubt about it.

John neither smiles, nor seems to even acknowledge the remark. He stares at you steadily, not blinking. "Sarah called to say hi to you." When you don't move, your surprise growing, he snatches the phone and dials the number with impatient fingers. "Come on, talk to her."

"What for? She is your girlfriend after all, why should any of your problems be another of my concerns-" Then you notice it. You and your detective skills, oh damn it. "John-"

He smiles lopsidedly, nodding his head and before you can add anything, he's gone and the phone falls to the floor carelessly before you have time to react.


	11. In sickness and in health

Some things are easier said than done. It's not even the thing of being fair to the other, acting as if you cared more than you are ready to admit. It is easier to shelter yourself with cheap sounding excuses, burrow all the hurt beneath pages written neatly on the topic of biochemistry or radiology. You like to think you are the brightest crayon in the whole box but there are many kinds of intelligence, my poor child. You lack some aspects of those socially oriented ones but still, it doesn't hurt as much as the books say it should. After all, who cares if something cuts right trough your flesh into the bone instead of coming down like it should. Everyone is interested in getting to know the details, the facts, even if they are surrounded by bunch of useless emotional gibberish. Gossiping is useful, on the other hand. It helps clear some things up rather quickly, much more efficiently than doing all the needed finding and cataloging yourself. Mycroft might be lazy but there is indeed undeniable wisdom in his doings, no matter how grudgingly you may admit it...

'Sherl... up... finally-' The sound seems disjointed, flowing like water all around you. Is someone trying to talk to you? It's a pleasant, familiar voice and in the right circumstances it could be welcome but now it feels as if a fly was buzzing in your ear. 'We have- talk, Sher-"

You try to take into your surroundings when the person starts to shake you. At first it's gentle but then grows rougher and frustration creeps into its bearer's voice. 'Sherlo-, I don't have- day, you better-'

You want to tell the man, for the logical part of your brain instantly recognised the voice as masculine, to leave you alone and come back later. He should just let you rest and not try to do something unimaginable for you this exact moment. "Wa-ke up?" What does that even mean? And "Sher-lock"? Is it you?

'Fine. Just lay here who-, I'm going- the groce-' There is some shuffling, the voice growing fainter with each step and finally there's a distant "click!" and everything grows peacefully silent once again. It's then that you try to open your lead heavy eyelids and you need a couple of seconds to focus your sight to see a fragment of the wall in front of you.

Your whole silhouette is set askew on the bed, covers laying crumpled on the floor, an opened the previous evening window letting Antarctic breeze into you room. You haven't had the energy to undress yourself and so you tremble in your yesterday's clothing. Eyes roll uncontrollably underneath the lids and your throat feels itchy and too dry to even complain about the whole situation when first rays of sunlight come through the curtains. Your head feels as if it weighed a hundred pounds. All the running around, bad weather conditions and the lack of sleep seem to have finally gotten to you.

The cough is sickly dry and painful, coming from the depth of your chest. You feel like dying.

'Sherlock, for the last time, wake-' You didn't notice the moment the man came back, too busy trying to bring the covers closer round yourself. You crack an eye open and there's no else but John hunching over you with keys and a wallet clasped firmly in each of his hands, his expression changing from irritation to surprise.

'I am not-' You sneeze loudly mid-sentence, right between your palms and the movement sends a wave of dizziness through your head. You do not get the joke yet just like you never get a cold, the flu or whatever else there might be. Such things are highly bothersome and they cannot happen to you, it's an old stated fact. 'Just give me ten minutes, I will-'

Another sneeze that leaves you dazed for a moment.

Although John seems to be irritated about the fact the two of you are sharing the same breathing space for the time being, his face loses its sharpness for a moment. He closes the window while looking at you from the still small distance. He starts gesturing with both of his hands, while gathering the covers in his arms to bring them onto the bed once again, 'Sherlock, I think you should lie down for a bit, I can do the groceries and later bring some meds, I and Sarah-'

'I don't need your help' The sentence leaves your mouth sooner than you have completed thinking the whole phrase containing it. There is venom in your tone, an indescribable amounts of it but the throbbing in your head only triggers the irrational hurt you feel gnawing at your insides. Dry cough shakes your whole ribcage painfully while John observes you from under furrowed brows, his silhouette tensing once again. You do not notice it happening straight away, but the tone of your voice raises , 'I don't want you to occupy your precious time-"

'Occupy? Just say straight away that you do not need my pity, Sherlock.' John's voice is strained and knuckles whiten on the material he is grasping. 'I am starting to bore you, am I not?'

You sit speechless for a few seconds, not really grasping the importance of the whole conversation. The atmosphere grew suffocatingly serious over just a few words and the dizziness in your head doesn't help much to understand something you aren't able to do right in much more normal state of mind and body. 'Pardon me, I-'

'I wanted to talk to you about Sarah, help you around a bit but now I see it's pointless once again. What exactly isn't pointless to do in front of you?" John's breathing becomes shallower as he comes closer, covers still in his hands. You don't know what would be a better idea to act upon if you weren't this pitifully weakened. Running or rather staying put?

'John, you know that what I meant was-' Your eyelids grow heavier with each syllable leaving the lips and it's way too hard to keep up the façade any more.

'Do things your way then, it's all fine by me. I have errands to run and as you once said, about yourself, I am no babysitter.' He flickers his eyes to the side, licking his lips nervously, a hard glint appearing in his eyes as he throws the covers over you carelessly.

You neither ask him when he will be back , nor does he honor you with such a piece of information.

'John, I...' You want to grab his shirt, do something but each limb feels far too weighty, grogginess encircling all of your senses and so he leaves before your fully outstretch arm can get hold and stop him from walking away. You don't know why, but the moment the outside door clicks, the whole flat grows big and intimidating all of the sudden. You tremble under the thick covers while looking down at your fingers, words frozen on the tip of your tongue just a minute ago slowly regaining their freedom, 'I am sorry for everything I said so far.'

The empty flat is a patient and understanding listener to all of your litanies of apologies which will never come true.


	12. Being fair

Sarah might be considered an elfin woman. She has her strength though, the inner as well as the out-side one and as she stumbles towards you and grips your coat tightly between her snow-white fingers, it is hard to find a good way of an escape. There's an open road round somewhere but her silhouette blocks out the lantern's light and you cannot read the road sign to know the address for sure.

"Sherlock, wait, I- We... We need to talk immediately." She stumbles while manoeuvring her body as not to look too intimidating and as soon as it is possible, you snatch the cloth angrily from her hands. She holds them open in the air for a moment, the watery black trails on her face shimmering in the green neon's light. "John told me you didn't want to hear me out but Sherlock, it's-"

It starts to rain. Droplets go down your nose and cheeks, a cloth bag full of bare necessities (milk, sugar, cough syrup, chocolate and some chicken) getting damper with each second as you stare at the trembling woman, every sign of previously possible arrogance washed away from the faces. You do not know how on earth she knew you were going out just this exact hour to do the thing John refused to take any part in nowadays. He sits in his room, writing things down or reading. Or goes out, most presumably with the same exact person trembling under her thin coat in front of you.

Sarah looks tired, even more than the last time you saw her. She has dark circles underneath her once bright eyes, her make-up flowing down under the tears' influence and isn't her lower lip a bit swollen by any chance? People are rushing to and fro behind your back and round her, the afterglow flickering and making it harder to see anything in the dim light of the afternoon. You are neither tired nor cold now, the curiosity coming at its peak in one quick caress of your eyes over her hunched shoulders.

She looks at you sideways, brushing the bangs from her forehead aside, a darkened purple shadow of a bruise on her temple coming sharply into view. You graze your eyes over her face for any sign of a lie, for something that might decode the whole situation immediately. Immediate solutions are no good, they make the truth go into hiding beneath all the layers of falsehood but things start getting out of hand. She comes up to you for you have withdrawn from her reach a mere moment before, the texture of her coat angry against yours when she takes your hand in hers.

Your whisper is faint on the wind, "Tell me."

She laughs humourlessly, vowels clashing with consonants as she breaths through her nose heavily. The air moves when you shuffle closer, trying not to lose even a sound spilling down her tongue,"I'd be better off without knowing both of you, I guess." She takes you by the arm, the movement slow and deliberate. "Someone noticed me coming to and fro between the two locations the other day."

"You are not allied to any of my cases." Meat is half-unfrozen by now most probably. Beautiful, just beautiful. Some car screeches to a halt when you cross the street side-ways but neither of you say anything even when the driver looks ready to strangle you on the spot. "At least none of the latest ones I am aware of."

"You are quite the celebrity now." Her voice is matted and yet strong. "Hard to find any time for the less important accompanying, right?"

You don't answer back. The two of you go cross the last few metres, light a bit better in this area. She is not looking at you with anticipation and something akin to guilt starts simmering deep within the layers. You are far more judgemental than it is either advisable or simply practical. Feelings should not cloud vision, never, ever. "When?"

"Whenever you accept the reality, in fact." Sarah closes her eyes briefly, forcing herself to smile at you. "I've everything in boxes already."

She is not smiling with triumph though. Her face seems older with worry and fear and somehow, you wonder why exactly someone would choose such a life if they did not wish upon one. John needs adrenaline, needs that from the outside point of view, like retired Olympic swimmers crave water and Sunday bakers the smell of baked goods. She seems too deflated and frightened to keep up the pace but even a small victory might play too big of a role to be overlooked so carelessly.

"Not everyone needs to be extraordinary." She muffles her sigh with a free hand, the sclera yellowish as she looks at you, the look drawn-out and questioning. You shift the bag to your other hand finally when she lets go of it, dry cough coming up the throat. Your look is hard and you mean what every word you are saying, "Think about it before it's too late to withdraw."

"Not always is the first the winning one." Sarah doesn't listen to self-centred geniuses with no social skills and jealous-obsessed minds. She listens to herself only and the fairy-tale's narrative already stuck in her brain. **I'm not backing down this time, deary.** The sentence is nearly sprayed on her face, mixed together with her expression and the tone of her voice.

There's a hardened glint in her eyes and even though you are the last to jump to conclusions at times, you sense challenge even more evident than before. To look and act even more childishly, she'd only need to stuck out her tongue at you and sing some annoying tune.

"See you very soon, Sherlock." She turns on her heel and goes just as noiselessly as she came up to you right at the door of the supermarket.

Keys are cold in your grip and so is the scarf finally laid down on the table with all of the hastily unpacked goods. John glares at you from the armchair he is sitting in with his newspaper and you almost want to leap from joy at the newest situation emerging before your very eyes. Perfect, everybody playing in a silent film, just perfect.

"Lestrade called. He wants you to take a look at the evidence one again. Said something about the hypotheses being faulty." John flips through the pages, disinterestedly looking at the pictures and coloured headlines. He must have read the thing at least twice by now for his leg is moving rhythmically with anticipation.

You sneeze before you can say anything back.


End file.
